


Quincy

by Nebulad



Series: Here Comes The General [2]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Quincy - Freeform, Tragedy, death mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 04:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7085185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nebulad/pseuds/Nebulad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m so sorry, babe,” she whispered against Preston's hair. A rush of hostility came over her as she thought about Clint, the one who’d made this happen. The one who’d ruined Quincy, who’d ruined the Minutemen, and who’d cut a big hole in the softest heart she’d ever met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quincy

For the first time in what seemed like forever, Cherry could hear her Pip-boy radio. The _all’s quiet_ report went out over the wasteland, and despite the ringing in her ears she was glad for it. Taking out a town full of Gunners had taken more improvisation and preparation than she’d anticipated, but it was worth it. No matter who came back for Quincy— not the Minutemen, not yet— the people who’d destroyed it would haunt it just as sure as the residents they’d killed did.

Preston was hanging onto his rifle like a lifeline, staring down at the cold corpse of Clint. Cherry’d snatched the traitor’s hat a while ago to keep the sun out of her eyes, and though there was no sun left and she wasn’t usually the type to keep trophies… she figured maybe she’d hang on to it. Bare faced and gaping lifelessly at the sky in a pile of his own busted up power armour, Clint seemed like any other Gunner scattered across town. He could’ve been any old private if Preston hadn’t been glaring down at him like he wanted to raise him back up just for the satisfaction of shooting him again.

“Saw a Red Rocket little bit northeast of here,” Cherry said casually, reaching out to try and work one of his white-knuckled hands away from the gun. “We can head on over there and see if there isn’t a couch or something to crash on.” His hand moved to hers and she twined their fingers, kissing his bloodied knuckles.

He was quiet for a while, though he looked up from the body and out over the town. “Not much of a point,” he ventured finally. “Quincy has plenty of beds.”

“Maybe we oughta try the garage anyway.” She didn’t wanna come right out and say that she wasn’t sure if he could handle spending the night here— he was strong and she knew it, but it was her little bitty bias that she’d promised Ronnie she didn’t have. _I love him, of course I do, but that doesn’t mean it’s gunna change how I make decisions._ Making him stay in Quincy because it was easy seemed downright cruel, no matter what manner of monster might be hiding out further ahead.

“It’s fine, Cherry,” he said firmly, finally putting his rifle back in its holster. “They all got what they deserved and for now this place is just… an old ruin. We should camp down deep, though— who knows if someone might pull a vertibird around.” Well she wanted to argue, but he was right _and_ her Colonel. Night was falling in earnest and they didn’t have any portable light besides the pastel green of her Pip-boy, so he wasn’t wrong to suggest bunkering down.

Still…

“If you say so, Pres.” She was still holding his hand, though maybe it was more right to say that he was hanging on hers— _real_ tight, like he was just _waiting_ for something else to jump out. “Any suggestions?”

“One of the stores has a little bunker underneath— follow me,” he said. He looked like he wanted to grab his gun again, but made a point not to. If it would’ve made him feel safer she wouldn’t have minded, but she didn’t say so. She had no damn idea what to do with him in this state, and decided that for better or worse all she could think of was to let him do as he liked.

He led her to one of the stores— she didn’t check which one and was all turned around even as well lit as Quincy remained— and opened up a hatch with a ladder downwards. “I’ll go first,” she offered, but he wasn’t letting go of her hand.

“It’s been a long day, Cherry. Let me take this one,” he insisted.

“You’ve got a gun, sugar. Ain’t gunna be much use in close quarters.” She held up her power fist like he didn’t know it was there. It got her an agitated sort of look, but otherwise nowhere.

“You could get filled full of bullets before getting close enough. The bunker isn’t _that_ small,” he insisted. Maybe she wasn’t near as indulgent as she figured she was being, because she didn’t plan on budging. Cherry was _going_ down into that hole first because she wasn’t about to let Preston take a blow for her in the state of mind he was in— or any, truth be told.

“Preston Garvey, let go of my hand.” She kept her voice soft but firm, waiting patiently as he tried to tell himself he was gunna be insubordinate. It wouldn’t have been _shocking_ for him to stand his ground, but she was sort of relying on him realizing that he was scaring her with that _I don’t care if it’s me that dies_ stuff.

He let go.

She moved to the ladder before he could change his mind and slid down the rusted metal. Chances were that there was nothing down there worth shooting, since it hadn’t come up while they were arguing about who was going down first. Still, she spun around real fast _just_ in case it was something that wouldn’t know to climb a ladder (like ferals, always the goddamn ferals)—

“Oh my _god.”_

“Cherry?” His voice was cracked and her heart jumped into her throat.

“I’m fine Preston stay up there,” she snapped.

“Not a chance.” He was at the ladder before she could protest and she _couldn’t_ let him see so she tried to sort of block his view but he was just a smidgen taller than her and he figured there was something coming at her so he wasn’t about to let her take a bullet for him and so… he froze. He froze up and stared forward, the blood draining from his face and his whole body going sort of… limp.

“Go back up the ladder, Pres,” she begged, nudging him in that direction. The bunker was filled with bodies— old bodies, and the smell was enough to knock you flat but Preston didn’t need any help with that. It made sense in a grim, vile sort of way— there was no place to actually _put_ the corpses of the residents that were killed. They couldn’t go in the quarry for fear of a fight with Slough’s raiders, and anywhere back in the swamp would either continue to stink and rot in plain view or be far too dangerous and time consuming to move farther than the Peabody house.

Perpetually impatient Gunners had done the next best thing and jammed them all in the bunker beneath whatever shop this was. They had height and so didn’t need depth— besides, it was only one bunker room. No interconnecting tunnels, no trap doors, nothing but a dead end. Why not use it for body disposal after all, if it wasn’t doing anything else? Worse came they waited a few years until most of the fleshy bits fell away and they had an empty bunker filled with skeletons. Bones were useful. It was an investment, really— so long as you were the fucking monster who killed them in the first place.

Preston stared forward like he was hypnotized— like he was naming every single one of those corpses, and recalling precisely how they’d died. It looked— _shit_ it was horrible to look but— it looked like there were more than a few Minutemen in the pile, alongside settlers and kids and teenagers _(Kyle, Jun had said their son’s name was Kyle)._ Cherry turned back to him and gently (as gentle as she could goddamn be) started nudging him back towards the entrance. “Let’s go find the garage, Pres,” she murmured. “It isn’t far.”

He went, but he didn’t say a damn word all the way there.

. . . . .

The terror of the wasteland that they had to endure at the garage was actually a great big relief after Quincy. The Atom Cats were funny— funnier if Cherry and Preston were in any sort of mood to do more than smile tersely— and damn friendly. Zeke took one look at them before catching on. “You cats just come up from Quincy?” he asked.

“Yeah. It’s all clear if you were looking to scav,” Cherry offered. Preston was all but leaning on her, and still hadn’t said a word. His breathing had gotten real heavy, though.

“Some real fucking squares up that way,” he offered, and Preston made a noise that was a cross between a laugh and a groan. “You gunna be okay, jack?”

“Just fine, thanks.” For all the Cats knew, Preston could’ve been shot. They even offered medical supplies but Cherry assured them that they were well stocked and undamaged considering what they’d been through. Besides scrapes and bruises, everything had been taken care of before… well before the night had taken a turn from _slaying evil_ to _witnessing atrocities._

They offered them space in the garage, even going as far as to drag a couple old mattresses out for the couple. Once they were left alone for the night, Preston sat down on the mattress and rested his head in his hands. “Hon?” she asked quietly, sidling up next to him.

“I just—” His voice cracked and she hushed him, taking his hat off and setting it on the ground by their feet. She moved him so his head could rest under her chin and squeezed him against her. He lost control of his breathing in heaving sobs, his body tucked between hers as the redness in his eyes spilled hot tears over the collar of her shirt.

“I’m so sorry, babe,” she whispered against his hair. A rush of hostility came over her as she thought about Clint, the one who’d made this happen. The one who’d ruined Quincy, who’d ruined the Minutemen, and who’d cut a big hole in the softest heart she’d ever met. Preston would keep going— he was like that. Strong, dependable, responsible, always willing to march forward so long as there was work to be done.

She would try to help him; and then when she died, she’d find Clint in the afterlife and punch his goddamn face in all over again. It still wouldn’t be enough, but it was a start.

**Author's Note:**

> man I was looking for Preston fic and it was just not happening. Deacon has more fic than Preston does. Nick has INFINITELY more fic than Pres like golly. [My writing blog is here](http://nebulaad.tumblr.com) where you can see stuff posted by me. It's super organized and took me more than three days total to complete. It also has playlists. Very exciting.


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